


More Cannons

by Pretzelcoatlus



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Music, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2018-10-24 01:49:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10731654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pretzelcoatlus/pseuds/Pretzelcoatlus
Summary: Junkrat grew up in Junkertown, and doesn't know a lot of things about life outside the exclusion zone. One of these things is music. Roadhog changes that.





	1. Dancing Queen - ABBA, 1976

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a fic about Junkrat hearing the song he hums in one of his voice lines, but it expanded. Please enjoy this sort-of-songfic. 
> 
> Dedicated to my boyfriend, who helped me come up with a lot of the content here, and always tolerates my shitty, shitty interests.

When Roadhog had first found Junkrat holed up in a booby trapped cave in the middle of the Outback, miles from Junkertown or any other shithole that passed for a settlement, he figured that the skinny prick hadn’t seen much civilization in his life. As Junkers went he was pretty standard—missing limbs, a shirt, some of his hair, most of his sanity—but it didn’t occur to Roadhog that Junkrat hadn’t been anything else _but_ a Junker. Roadhog remembered who he was before the Australian Liberation Front and for better or worse he was at least familiar with the basics of civilian life, even if they were rusty from disuse. But all Junkrat knew was how to scrape roadkill off the crumbling asphalt with the least amount of tar stuck to the meat and how to salvage the alarms from decades old car wrecks that hadn’t been picked clean yet. Junkrat was dimly aware the refuse he scavenged in the Outback had been intended for purposes other than collecting dust until a Junker found them, but it had never occurred to him to find out what for. Protecting his treasure (and to a lesser extent, his life) was Junkrat’s ultimate priority which, after some frantic negotiation at the business end of a shotgun, became Roadhog’s as well.

Roadhog made it a point not to pry into the lives of his employers more than was necessary, and thus never asked Junkrat where he’d come from. He didn’t really care either, but Junkrat did plenty of the talking on his own, and the way he spoke it was as if boxing two-headed kangaroos and snacking on radroaches had been something he’d always done, with a blasé attitude that made the daily fight for scraps of food and passably clean water seem as mundane as shuffling into the kitchen for coffee every morning.  The guilt nipped at Roadhog just a bit, an irritating stab in his gut, but at the very least Junkrat’s attitude seemed positive; too positive to have been around for very long.

“How old are you?” Roadhog finally rumbled at him on the drive to Sydney, their first trip outside the desolate reaches of the Outback. Junkrat stared at him blankly. Age was an abstract concept for Junkers; calendars weren’t household items and the stress of survival and radiation poisoning aged everyone quickly.

“Dunno,” he said finally, after counting on his fingers. “Twenty-somethin’?”

Roadhog choked on air, reflexively pushing his mask against his face as if he’d inhaled a bug through inches of leather.

“What? S’not like I got anyone keepin’ track. Me mum ran off before I was born.”

“Not possible,” Roadhog groaned, head still spinning. The high curve to his widow’s peak suggested Junkrat had at least hit his late thirties but with the background radiation it was hardly novel for early-onset male pattern baldness.

“Well, how old are _you_?”

Roadhog shook his head, not pulling his eyes from the road. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Then why’s it matter what age I am?”

“Doesn’t either.” Roadhog shrugged, using the motion to crack his stiff wrists. “Was just curious.”

He had also noticed that Junkrat was getting antsy again, drumming his metal fingers on the searing hot steel frame of the sidecar, bouncing his knee, and that was usually when he started trying to dig around in Roadhog’s bike bag when he thought he wasn’t looking, and the bastard was slippery when he was determined.

“I’m curious too, you fat oaf.” Roadhog _did_ pull his eyes from the road this time, to glare at Junkrat. Junkrat grinned, even though he shrunk a little under that black-tinted gaze, and tittered like a lying child. “You must be embarrassed, then! No other reason to be tight lipped, old man.”

Roadhog scowled and turned back to the road. “I’m not old. Yet.”

“Then how old _are_ you?” Junkrat repeated, dragging out every word, leaning over the sidecar to get into his peripheral vision. Roadhog snorted and pushed him back into his seat with a palm on his face. Junkrat was surprisingly acquiescent to that; the biting didn’t break the skin this time. Or maybe he was just getting tougher callouses to deal with Junkrat’s rabid ass.

“Old enough,” he said, drawing his hand back even as Junkrat attempted to drag it back in for more. “I was around your age when the Omnium blew.”

“Fuck me dead, you’re ancient!” he cackled, slapping the sidecar. “I wasn’t born long before that. Couldn’t tell you when, exactly.”

“Ancient is a strong word,” Roadhog sighed, uncharacteristically patient. “I prefer middle aged.”

“Explains the bike and all the leather.”

Roadhog snorted at that one. Junkrat preened.

“Where the hell are we going, anyway?” Junkrat said, quickly snapping into boredom once Roadhog’s attention had shifted back to the drive. Roadhog heaved another sigh, and spoke slowly, just to agitate him.

“To Sydney. Like you told me to, last night, and the night before that. You said that we’d find more money there than we would at home.”

The thought rattled around in Junkrat’s head a bit before he clapped his hands together.

“Oh! Right right right.”

Junkrat grinned. It was the best idea he’d had since he’d stolen an Omnic’s arm and jerry-rigged a nerve-circuit interface out of frayed copper wire and other assorted Omnium ‘souvenirs’. Thankfully, this plan would have a lot less tetanus involved. Raiding Junker settlements had gotten too easy now that they were used to working together, and with the higher quality materials they stole Junkrat was making new and better weapons all the time, stuff that would put many vigilante paramilitary organizations to shame; stuff that could be used against commercial-grade security drones, and maybe military-grade Omnics—the scrap gun he’d built for Roadie was particularly good at tearing armored road warrior cars to pieces. If they started small they could take the civvie’s fresh and clean tech for themselves, and finally, they and the suits would be on an equal playing field. Then it would be _real_ fun. He could hardly wait.

“How much longer?”

Roadhog’s head throbbed. He’d asked so many times.

Roadhog counted six more how longs and three more wheres before they made it to the first signs of civilization: a chain-link fence two stories high, barbed wire coiled at the top, with a half-doored gate  along the deteriorated road, framed with signage in multiple languages, all reading some variation of “keep out” or “radioactive” or “exclusion zone ahead”, all facing outward from the wastes, towards the jagged skyline of buildings, foggy and monochrome like distant mountains. Junkrat stared back at the signs as they passed through the busted gate, eyebrows furrowed, oddly quiet. Roadhog wondered if he could even read.

“You’d have to be fuckin’ blind if you couldn’t see this place was blasted all to hell. Why they gotta put up signs?”

Ah. So he could read.

“Liability, I suppose.”

“Lia-what now?”

But reading ability didn’t mean life experience.

“If someone wandered in there and got sick or hurt,” Roadhog droned, “the government could be forced to pay them money to make up for it.”

Junkrat’s face screwed up in a grimace. “But Junkers get sick and hurt all the time back there and we’ve never seen a cent!”

Roadhog’s grip tightened on the handlebars. “Yeah. Only applies to folks outside of the blast zone, I guess. Or the ones that let themselves get evicted.”

“Evicted? But we bloody live there!”

Roadhog nodded. His jaw clenched, mask shifting on his face. “Exactly. They told us to leave around the time you were born, after the Omnics invaded. We didn’t, because this place belongs to us. So when we-the Omnium exploded, they just left us there. Gave us fair warning, they said.”

Junkrat went quiet again. The signs blurred together as they drove farther, Roadhog unconsciously shifting into a higher gear. Junkrat nearly slid out of his seat and swore.

“Wonder why my folks didn’t beat it before it all went to shit,” Junkrat said, after he was settled. “I don’t remember anything that wasn’t Junkertown.”

“Lack of money, maybe,” Roadhog replied. “Can be expensive to move. Outback is cheap living. Or was.”

“S’that why you didn’t leave?”

Roadhog grunted irritably. “It was a lot of things.”

“Like?”

Roadhog shifted another gear higher. The sound was deafening and the kick of speed made Junkrat cackle and cling to the sidecar to keep from sliding out again.

Junkrat forgot all about the conversation, and mercifully they came up on a ramshackle truck stop a couple miles from the gate, conspicuously lacking in parked trucks. It probably saw more use when the Landsborough Highway actually led somewhere. The western side of the convenience store looked newer than the eastern side—perhaps it had to be partially reconstructed after the meltdown. Roadhog rolled to a stop out front and peered through the dusty windows, shielding his eyes from the sun. There was a figure inside, human and moving, so the place was still open, or at the very least was being picked over by someone else who probably had found something.

“What’s that, Hoggy? Hungry again?”

Roadhog really hated that nickname and Junkrat knew it, but the promise of money softened his anger. “Sort of. But I think we found our first mark.”

“This dump?” Junkrat snorted. “Don’t look much better than the places we stuck up back home.”

“True, but there’s clean food and water in there. And real Australian dollars.”

Junkrat had seen legal tender before, but a lot of it was damaged beyond recognition or poorly counterfeited. Junkers mostly relied on trading and raiding to get what they wanted, but some fancied themselves entrepreneurs and would accept money in lieu of resources. Some people like to hoard it, thinking that civilization would come back to them. It had always been a fascination of Junkrat’s, that a strip of paper could supposedly have value far greater than the materials used to produce it.

“It won’t be much,” Roadhog shrugged, “but it’s up to you, boss.”

Junkrat beamed so brightly up at him that it made Roadhog squint through his lenses.

“Probably more than we’ve ever had, mate. Let’s go!”

Junkrat bounded out of the sidecar and limped excitedly up to the door. Roadhog had to stop Junkrat from putting an explosive charge on the entrance, and Junkrat was shocked that a shack full of food, water, and cash would be left wide open for anyone to waltz in and take. The bell jingled when Roadhog opened it and the clerk behind the counter immediately focused on them, his face turning white. Clearly, he knew Junkers when he saw them. Judging by the state of the gate they’d passed, it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume other Junkers had the same bright idea they did.

There was a tinny pop song on the radio that Roadhog vaguely remembered. He never cared for disco. Junkrat didn’t seem to notice it over his nervous snickering. His hearing was never great, anyway.

“I don’t want no trouble,” said the clerk, reaching under the counter. Roadhog couldn’t help but snort, but he stepped in front of Junkrat nevertheless, nudging him behind his back, stepping into his role of bullet sponge. Roadhog counted his canisters just to be safe. Junkrat peeked around Roadhog’s gut, grinning at the clerk.

“Sucks for you,” Junkrat giggled. “’cause we do.”

“Fuck,” said the clerk, and Roadhog took a cautious couple steps forward. The clerk whipped out his shotgun. Junkrat had found the pitiful weapon just as funny as Roadhog did, but he laughed more openly, hysterical and chittering like a kookaburra. Roadhog shuddered—he still wasn’t used to that noise. The clerk certainly wasn’t expecting it and he shook, his finger tightening around the trigger.

“You know what we’re after, mate,” Junkrat sneered. “If you really want no trouble you’ll hand over the cash and my fat friend here won’t squash you like a bug.” He patted Roadhog’s hooking arm, squeezing his bicep a little too possessively for Roadhog’s liking. “Or shove that limp boomstick up where the sun don’t shine. What sounds better to you, Hoggy?”

That fucking nickname again. He was getting ballsy.

“Money,” he grunted. Junkrat cackled again, long and loud, and Roadhog had reached his quota for annoyance for today. He slid open the ice cream bin in front of the counter and pulled out the first package his fingers touched. An ice cream “taco” apparently, with a waffle serving as the shell. Odd, but it would do. He tore open the wrapper and grabbed Junkrat by the head, squeezing his jaw open and cramming the oddly-shaped treat into his mouth. Junkrat glared at him like he was going to tell him off but the sugary taste distracted him—it was richer than anything he’d tasted before. Ice cream didn’t keep well in the Outback, after all. Junkrat made a happy noise and bit off another piece, holding it in both hands like a precious jewel.

With his charge distracted, Roadhog hefted his scrap gun and leveled it at the clerk. The clerk fired, making Junkrat jump instinctively behind his bodyguard, and the shattered buckshot dug countless holes into Roadhog’s torso, killing any lesser man, but as the shrapnel holes opened and bled Roadhog only laughed, pulling a canister out of his bandolier and clicking it into the filters of his mask, taking a long, rattling breath. The bullet holes filled in quickly, popping the shrapnel out, which clattered to the cheap linoleum floor.

“Fuck!” The clerk said again. Roadhog’s shoulders shook with quiet laughter.

“I doubt you can take a shot like that,” Roadhog rumbled, holding the scrap gun closer to his face. “I’d open the safe, if I were you.”

And he did. The clerk carefully placed the shotgun down on the counter, raised his hands, and sank under the counter to open it. Roadhog ripped the cash register off its bolts and slammed it face-down on the counter, popping the drawer open. It wasn’t a lot, like he thought, but hopefully there would be more in the safe.

“Junkrat,” Roadhog called, suddenly cognizant of how quiet he’d been, which was never a good sign. Junkrat normally got a kick out of people who thought they could take Roadhog down. “Grab what you can. It’s a long drive to town.”

But Junkrat didn’t say anything. Roadhog could feel him pressed up against his back, hair tickling the nape of his neck. He stuffed bundles of fives and tens into the pockets of his sagging overalls.

“Junkrat!” Still no answer. Irritated, Roadhog turned around, still holding the scrapgun towards the crouched clerk. He saw Junkrat stock-still, wide eyes fixated on the wall-mounted speaker, chewing slowly, crumbs of chocolate and waffle cone flecking his lips. Roadhog’s vision was foggy through his dusty lenses but he could see Junkrat shivering a little, like he was cold, his shoulders rolling.

“Junkrat?” Roadhog was more confused than anything now. Somehow, the quieter call got Junkrat’s attention, and he nodded towards the speaker. _Friday night and the lights are low, looking out for a place to go…_

“What’s that noise?” Junkrat finally said, awed. _Where they play the right music, getting in the swing, you come in to look for a king…_

“Music,” Roadhog replied, mask obscuring a raised eyebrow. _Anybody could be that guy, night is young and the music’s high…_

“Music?” Junkrat tilted his head.

 Roadhog’s head reeled. The guy knew what a mid-life crisis was but hadn’t heard music before?

“Yeah,” he said, muffled voice hitching up slightly in confusion. “ABBA, I think they’re called. Came out a long time ago.”

It was a miracle it still got radio play, really, but if it could keep Junkrat focused on it longer than two minutes it must have had some kind of appeal.

“S’nice,” Junkrat said, turning back to the speaker. The only thing that drew him out of his trance was the sound of the alarm. There must have been a panic button under the counter. Roadhog groaned.

“Junkrat, get food, _now_.” The guy had opened the safe after all, so Roadhog could dispose of him. Junkrat scrambled to action, pulling bottled water out of the coolers and sweeping armfuls of chips off the shelves. Roadhog pocketed the paper clipped wad of twenties and fifties in the safe, more than he’d seen in years. When he was done, Junkrat had stopped in front of the ice cream bin, a couple Choco Tacos clamped between his teeth, cradling a heart attack’s worth of junk food, once again distracted by the speaker, the sweeping violins, the hammering piano.

“You can’t listen to music if the cops blow your head off,” Roadhog growled, scooping him up around the middle and hoisting him over his shoulder, hoofing it back to the car. He threw Junkrat in the sidecar, crushing the chips, and drove like a bat out of hell. He took the bike off-road, knowing the cops would beeline from the nearest town to the truck stop.

Junkrat spat out the ice cream packages, tearing one open and tapping Roadhog in the arm with it. Roadhog meant to wave it away, but ended up taking it. The wrapper was a little wet and warm from his spit, which was gross, but he’d eaten a lot worse. It took some doing to push up his mask enough to reveal his mouth and also leave enough space in the lenses to see the road ahead, but he managed to take a bite. It was worth it.

“Holy shit,” he said. “That’s good.”

Junkrat grinned. “Guess the civvies are doin’ something right, eh?”

He started on the other taco, ignoring the crushed chips for now. Around his mouthful, he hummed. _See that girl, watch that scene, digging the Dancing Queen._


	2. I'm Not In Love - 10cc, 1975

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roadhog is really tired of disco.

If Roadhog didn’t care for disco before, he certainly hated it now. Worse than any repetitive station Junkrat hummed that lilting tune constantly and it wasn’t like he was _bad_ at it, he just had _never heard anything else before_. Roadhog had heard him whistle before all this and Junkrat had told him some childhood friend in Junkertown without any arms at all had taught him how to do it. But it wasn’t structured like a song, just random discordant notes, all over the place, imitations of car alarms and mutant birdsong. Junkrat was always finding ways to make noise he couldn’t think of anything of value to say. But now it was just Dancing Queen over and over and over again.

Roadhog’s jaw popped from grinding his teeth, taking out his rage on himself in an effort to remain professional. He kept trying to remember music he _did_ like but then Junkrat would start up again and he’d lose it. His soul was dissolving in a vat of blonde Icelandic pop acid and he was letting it happen. What was he even tolerating this for anyway? He still hadn’t seen whatever the hell the salvaged Omnic data cache was supposed to do but Junkrat assured him that they needed a lot more time and resources to make it happen and that it would remain hidden until then. Seeing Junkrat’s logic in action brought up the strong possibility that the treasure was all a load of shit or just a rumor or an excuse to finally shut his loud mouth up once and for all. But Junkrat always split the money from their heists and muggings along a strict fifty-fifty divide, down to the penny, even, and hardly ever bothered him to pitch in for something unless he was in dire straits (or had blown the last of it on ice cream). Having grown up in the “streets” of Junkertown, Junkrat’s level of commitment to an agreement would be seen more stupid than laudable, but in the killing business there’s always a person greedier than you waiting to bleed you dry and maybe Roadhog appreciated his honesty a little.

It didn’t stop him from letting go of one of his handlebars to clamp his hand over Junkrat’s mouth. Junkrat cackled into his grip—this is why Roadhog had stopped bothering to reprimand him for being noisy. It was all just to get his attention. Junkrat seemed to enjoy Roadhog trying to intimidate him—when Roadhog picked up a bloke by the throat they usually squirmed and clawed at his meaty fingers and begged for their lives but Junkrat would grin and pet the coarse hair on his arms and goad him to do it, do it big guy, pop me head clean off!  And when he would say that it took all the fun out of killing him and Roadhog would set him down and try to go back to ignoring him.

Even now, Junkrat was sticking to the script, licking and gnawing at Roadhog’s palm, trying to get him to either let go or snap his head back like a PEZ dispenser. Most likely the latter.

“It’ll take more’n that to shut me up!” he giggled, gripping Roadhog’s massive wrist like he was trying to wrestle a gator. Roadhog flicked him off and wiped Junkrat’s spit back on him, making him laugh, but he didn’t chase Roadhog to pester him more. He settled back into what was previously occupying his time before, a thick barrel attachment for Roadhog’s gun. It was taking him a while; the crank mechanism was giving him trouble, but the thick metal teeth that served as a scrap shredder were starting to move together smoothly. The intact roads of the unaffected coastal areas were a boon for Junkrat’s productivity, making it easier to engage in his extremely dangerous hobbies without jostling a screw out of place in a pothole or hitting a rock and setting off a grenade. For Roadhog, it would have meant long moments of blissful silence (save for the quiet muttering of Junkrat thinking out loud, easily muted by the roar of his chopper). But Roadhog, in dragging Junkrat out of his natural habitat, had inflicted a great curse upon himself, and while starting the tedious process of tightening a half-dozen bolts back into place, Junkrat lapsed into song once again.

_Don’t drive angry_ , a familiar voice cooed in his ear as his blood pressure skyrocketed. He hadn’t listened to that voice in two decades, but anything would be better than more refrain of _Dancing Queen_. He pulled off the road onto the shoulder, taking a minute to crack his neck and back, take a breath, and try not to murder Junkrat.

Roadhog isn’t known to take it slow and enjoy the view, so Junkrat looked up from his work trance once he realized they had stopped. He stared for a long time before he squawked,

“Oi, Roadhog, what’s the holdup?”

Roadhog took another rattling, growling breath, and threw a leg over the side of his chopper. With his bodyguard’s back turned, Junkrat was eyeing the pack strapped between the bike and the sidecar. Keeping the pack in Junkrat’s reach was asking for trouble, but it made it harder for other people to steal from them—and easier to hide explosives around it. Junkrat had been awful accommodating with that—probably supposing he’d get a peek as a reward, but his infiltrations of Roadhog’s belongings were half-hearted attempts to get Roadhog’s attention at best. He didn’t bother while Roadhog was sleeping, since there was no point to prying.

“I’m going to open my bike bag,” Roadhog said. The sound that came out of Junkrat’s mouth startled some galahs out of the trees on the side of the road. Roadhog jabbed one massive finger into his chest and Junkrat snapped ramrod straight at attention.

“No matter what you see in there,” Roadhog growled, drawing out his words to make his voice clearer—and harsher—through the carbon filters of his mask. “I don’t want to hear a peep out of you. No jokes, no commentary, no questions. Nothing.”  He dug his finger into Junkrat’s sternum, bending him over the back of the sizzling hot aluminum paneling of the car. “Understood?”

Junkrat nodded before Roadhog had even finished his last statement, and continued to nod until Roadhog pulled away, dropping heavily on one knee to unlock and unbuckle the bag. Junkrat leaned over the edge of the car, watching closely.

There were more ice cream wrappers than Roadhog remembered putting in there, but he didn’t like leaving a trail of garbage behind him now that cops were starting to give a shit about finding them. Junkrat was already snickering but shut up right quick when Roadhog glared at him, his mask doing all the work his face used to do. There were a few paperback novels with covers so worn and bent the titles were unreadable, and Junkrat clapped his hands over his mouth to keep from giggling at the thought of Roadhog actually reading those—how could he read around the thumb holding it open? Roadhog dropped them in the dirt; they were beat up, anyway, they could take a little more. But the next set of books—hardcovers, with less pages, the corners a little chewed up but colorful cartoon jackets still intact—he sets down with some reluctance, propping them up on top of the paperbacks so they don’t get dirty. Junkrat made out a pink pig with tall ears and a dress on the cover of one, but when he rose out of the car to get a better look Roadhog swooped in, pressing his mask up against Junkrat’s face. Junkrat’s eyes bugged, fixed on those dusty lenses, reflecting the horizon of the recovering plains surrounding them. Galahs chattered in the trees while Roadhog’s breathing drowned out his thoughts, and it eventually occurred to him to sit back down and stay out of his business. Roadhog’s snout stayed pressed against his nose until Junkrat’s ass hit the seat.

Roadhog went back to pulling the junk out of his bag: a couple more books, an old faux leather wallet with metal studs, a set of spare keys with a hefty load of vintage Pachimari keychains, a couple cigarette boxes stuffed with buckshot in case his scrap gun blew up in his face like most things Junkrat built. One of them even had cigarettes still in it, but Roadhog’s lungs were just too bad for them now. There was a lighter in there too, also Pachimari branded, manufactured before angry parents complained en masse in the 2040’s and purchased online when post still made it to the Outback without being stolen or blown up for fun.

Roadhog made a noise of frustration, fingers running along the bottom of the bag, until his broad fingers closed around a small brick of plastic. Roadhog produced a music player with a triumphant snort and it was still connected to a tangled string of wired earphones. The glass touchscreen MP3 player was an ancient relic even when Mako first bought it in his early teens, most of his friends having moved to holographic projections and wireless audio by the time he was dropping out of college, but he always preferred the simplicity of a physical surface.

Miraculously, it had held a charge all those years. Roadhog held it out to Junkrat, whose head reared back defensively, as though it would leap up and bite him.

“This thing stores and plays music,” Roadhog explained carefully, astounded that Junkrat hasn’t said anything yet or swiped it to add to his hoard of crap slated for disassembly. “My hands are too big to work the buttons anymore, so… you can have it.”

Junkrat blinked rapidly, face tense in suspicious surprise. Junkrat cocked his head, examining his gift, eyebrows furrowed. He prodded at the button below the screen and grimaced when the screen just flashed instead of bringing _Dancing Queen_ back into his life again.

“No,” Roadhog groaned, “Here. It plays through these.”

Roadhog pressed the player into Junkrat’s palm, pinching the tiny earbuds in his sausage fingers to stick them in Junkrat’s ears, a sensation he didn’t appreciate and hissed at, squirming while Roadhog held them in until he settled down and got used to them.  

“Watch,” Roadhog said firmly, grabbing Junkrat by the hand and guiding his thumb, his narrow digits sliding the lock button across the screen, playing a click that makes Junkrat go stiff, scanning their surroundings—he thought it was the click of a pistol. It was difficult to guide Junkrat like this; he was a fidgety guy, and reading the screen was headache-inducing upside down, so he got up with an exaggerated stomp and walked around the sidecar to slide up against Junkrat’s back and he went totally still again.

“Hit this button,” Roadhog says, pressing Junkrat’s thumb to the screen. “The one with the musical notes.”

It didn’t occur to Roadhog that Junkrat would have no concept of what musical notation was until after he’d said it, but still Junkrat stayed silent, twitching under the weight of Roadhog’s gut with more control than usual as the app opened. Roadhog hesitated before guiding Junkrat to the “shuffle” button. He couldn’t remember most of what he used to listen to. That had all been filed away under information that was now irrelevant to him, having to fight day to day to make a living in the Outback. Maybe what he listened to could be embarrassing, but again… Junkrat wouldn’t know.

With a breath of resignation, Roadhog started the music.

Junkrat jolted with a start, back thudding against Roadhog’s chest and belly, his bodyguard’s inertia keeping him in place, and his unoccupied mechanical hand reached up to touch the uncomfortable buds in his ears. Roadhog had turned the volume all the way up, knowing Junkrat’s hearing wasn’t the best, but maybe it spooked him?

It didn’t seem to matter. Junkrat lay up against Roadhog’s gut even as his bodyguard stood up straight and popped the kinks out of his back. Junkrat stared up at the spatter of clouds above as music droned in his ears, both arms now limp at his sides but his flesh hand still clutching the player like it’d squirm out of his grip. Roadhog didn’t recognize the title or artist and didn’t want to give himself a helping of whatever was crawling around in Junkrat’s ears to check, so he let him be. Roadhog started to step back but Junkrat moved with him, glazed eyes open but the rest of him comatose. Roadhog feared he’d fall out of the sidecar and crack his head open. What little hair Junkrat had left stood on end. The blunted heel of Junkrat’s single boot clacked against the tin floor of the sidecar to the insistent _lub-dub_ of the synthesized drum, like a dog kicking its leg when scratched, an unconscious response. Roadhog huffed with amusement and the shake of his belly brought Junkrat back to himself, if only for a little while, and he smiled up at Roadhog, grin unmistakable even upside down.

But he still wasn’t saying anything.

“Oh.” Roadhog snorted. “You can talk now.”

Junkrat stood in the sidecar and whipped around, launching himself at Roadhog and wrapping his arms around his neck. A risky move. Most people would have died for that. Roadhog was an inch from ending Junkrat’s life right there when he realized the squeeze wasn’t an attempt to strangle him, and that Junkrat was chattering happily in his ear.

“Oh thank you mate, this is just _marvelous_ mate, you can just listen to this stuff _anywhere_? This shite ain’t so bad! There was a bloke I knew in Junkertown who’d gotten his mitts on a stringed up piece of wood called a fiddle and it sounded something like this but it just made my head hurt like nobody’s business when he played it, this stuff is _great_! I didn’t know it was like _this_! How many musics this thing got?”

“Songs,” Roadhog grunted, awkwardly patting Junkrat’s crooked spine until he dropped down to mess with the player. “Thousands of ‘em, I think. It’s been a while.”

“Thousands!” Junkrat crowed. “Absolutely bonkers. Technology is amazing!”

“You’ll need to charge it, though,” Roadhog said, going back to his bag. “Let me find you a wire and a plug.”

The word “wire” had Junkrat all kinds of interested, but he remembered his earlier agreement and shut back up when Roadhog started searching his things, turning his attention to his gift instead. Having to charge his new toy would prove to be an issue—they would need a power outlet and it wasn’t like they could walk into a maccas and loiter for half an hour looking like they do.

Roadhog looked at Junkrat, curled over his treasure with a steep curve to his grin. He was figuring out the mechanics of operating the touchscreen pretty quickly, faster than Roadhog would give him credit for. Junkrat _was_ pretty handy; his scrap gun was freakishly intuitive for having been made out of garbage, but knowledge of improvised firearms didn’t translate seamlessly into computer literacy. Still, if Roadhog had learned anything so far in this partnership, it was that underestimating Junkrat could prove deadly.

Still, watching him bob his head to music he’d gone his whole life without hearing, it was hard to see him as anything but an extremely unlucky kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried really hard not to use this song because it's in a certain extremely popular recent movie but I couldn't resist. I'm sorry. They won't all be 70's pop, I promise.


	3. Ain't That A Kick in the Head? - Dean Martin, 1960

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roadhog and Junkrat go to McDonald's. Roadhog gets his obligatory mask/name reveal.

Silence, golden, blissful, lasted all of a few hours. During that time, Junkrat curled up around his new treasure like Roadhog would snatch it back from him, staring at the electrical poles as they zipped by and following the serpentine loop of parallel wires with hypnotic swings of his eyes. Roadhog thought he’d at least ask what the poles were and how to weaponize them, but maybe Junkrat didn’t care for any of that. He would have plenty of time to ask later when he got bored of his toy.

Eventually the humming came back. Roadhog knew for a _fact_ there wasn’t any ABBA in his library, so he allowed it, even when it turned to singing. It boggled Roadhog that he could learn to follow along with music in such a short time until Roadhog caught him flicking back to repeat the same few songs over and over. Roadhog groaned. He was hoping he was going to get a little more variety, but at least it was something closer to his—Mako’s—taste. Junkrat was no _primo uomo_ but he wasn’t bad at carrying a tune, at least. Junkrat flubbed the lyrics often, though; “S’cuse me while I kiss this guy!” had Roadhog wheezing so hard he had to pull over. Junkrat was too busy drumming his makeshift screwdrivers on the rim of his sidecar to notice.

From the handful of songs Junkrat had taken a liking to on their drive, Roadhog couldn’t pin down his preferences. He liked the psychedelic stuff, obviously, as well as the percussion-heavy metal Mako had liked in his greasy, hot-tempered teens, which didn’t surprise Roadhog much. Of course Junkrat would like squealing and thrashing guitars, drumbeats like the patter-pat of automatic weapons. It suited him, and probably his hearing loss—he could feel it more than he heard it. But at the same time, he liked the cheesy crooners from a full century ago, pulled from the soundtracks of gangster movies Mako used to watch, slow and full of useless sentiment.

Junkrat hummed and sang until his voice went hoarse, and then some after that—only stopping once the player ran out its charge, letting out a noise of disappointment that snapped Roadhog out of his reverie. Junkrat turned the player over in his fingers frantically, trying to find what he could have possibly broken, and Roadhog chuckled. The sound got Junkrat’s attention for the first time in hours, and Junkrat pulled the buds out of his ears with a wince, like he was prying a piece of himself off. Turns out he actually was—the buds dug up a hefty load of earwax on their way out. Those earphones were definitely not going to be used by anyone other than Junkrat again, not without a good bleaching.

“Time for a pit stop,” said Roadhog, and Junkrat brightened.

 

It had been a long time since Roadhog had entered a place without intending to trash it and everyone inside. He sat on his bike in the maccas parking lot for a long time, enjoying the shade from the dry heat, fiddling with the buckles of his mask. Junkrat was still fiddling with the long-dead player, trying to find the secret combination of buttons that would turn it back on. He nervously hummed the whole time, as though his favorite melodies would fade from his memory if he didn’t rehearse them.

“Relax,” Roadhog huffed. “We’ll charge its battery while we eat and it’ll be fine.”

“If it’s so easy then what’s the holdup?” Junkrat snapped. Roadhog growled, already regretting his first act of kindness in at least a decade, but he did have a point. All he had to do was walk through that door, but he knew the flabby rural folks who lived around the area wouldn’t be so keen on serving a half-naked freak in a pig mask. If he let Junkrat go in to order for him, the whole place would go up in flames before they could find an outlet. So the best option was to take off the mask. Around people. And _talk_ to them.

Roadhog stalled for time by digging through his bike bag. Junkrat’s curiosity won out over his impatience and he scuttled over to watch, perched on the ground like an eager gargoyle.

“It’s not that interesting, Rat.” Roadhog said, something like a smile in his voice, but it was hard to tell under the all the filtration. “Just my stuff.”

“Stuff you wouldn’t lemme see till this afternoon,” Junkrat corrected, brows furrowed. “Gotta be good stuff.”

“Boring stuff,” said Roadhog, pushing his books into the sides, reaching down to the bottom to pull out two rubber-banded bundles; thick rolled cloth, both black, dusty and a little crumby. “Old stuff.”

“Stuff from before?” Junkrat’s voice was hushed, a little squeaky. Roadhog nodded with a noncommittal “mmh,” snapping off the rubber bands with barely a flick of his wrist. He tossed a roll to Junkrat, taking a corner of his and snapping it out—it unfolded into what appeared to be a rug at first glance, but was actually a shirt. Junkrat was trying to figure out which hole he was meant to put his head through when he got distracted watching Roadhog shrug off his vest and ended up wearing the sleeve as a collar. He continued to stare while Roadhog hung his head low and heaved one long, irritated sigh; it’s a sound he usually made when Junkrat bungled one of his own plans, but it was shakier this time and it makes his sweaty shoulders tense up then droop down into dramatic slopes.

Roadhog pinched the buckles of his mask and pulls it off. Junkrat leaned forward in his seat, his metal arm making a lame attempt to find the other sleeve. Almost immediately Roadhog mopped the shirt over his face, the black material not showing the sweat it absorbed when he pulled it on. The shirt had some white lettering on it reading “METALLICA” but Junkrat was occupied with trying to get a good angle to see Roadhog’s face, and Roadhog was making it hard for him. He pulled the tie out of his hair to hide the marks where the straps of his mask had cut into his neck and crammed the mask into his bag (which Junkrat was no longer interested in), pulling out a vented plastic breathing mask instead. His silvery hair veiled him while he bent over the bag but from what Junkrat could see, and his jaw was round and bristled with gray.  His lips were chapped and thick, twisted in an uncomfortable scowl, bushy eyebrows pinched together in a tense crease that eased only slightly when he fitted the mask over his ears.

Roadhog looked at Junkrat, bound up and tangled in shirt, and Junkrat flinched a little. Junkrat had felt that gaze dozens of times through inches of lens but without the barrier it cut into him like a knife. The crow’s feet at the corner of Roadhog’s eyes crinkled, and he laughed, low and short, pushing his damp hair back and out of his face.

“For God’s sake,” Roadhog wheezed, reaching out to pull the sleeve over Junkrat’s head. He sounded so human with only the plastic between them.  “Have you ever worn a shirt in your life?”

 

Perhaps Roadhog had underestimated the power of freak tolerance a maccas employee grows to possess over the course of their career. If anything the boy with the stretched earlobes that worked the register was relieved when the pair of killers and thieves came up next in line. Roadhog was mostly keeping an eye on Junkrat, using the shirt like a harness to keep him from instinctively digging in the trash and other patron’s bags and pockets, but he was dimly aware of the ruckus the customer ahead of them had made. 

“C’mon, mate, they ain’t gonna miss it, nobody has to die, besides they got plenty more—“

“Not now,” Roadhog said, yanking him up to the counter. “Not here.”

The boy grinned at them, tired. He smelled remarkably skunky up close.

“As you’ve probably already heard, the ice cream machine’s broken **,” t** he employee said. “But other than that, what can I get you?”

Junkrat made a disappointed noise. It took a minute for Roadhog to look over the menu. He didn’t eat here before the Omnium explosion; not many vegetarian options he cared for, but living in the Outback had made him care a lot less. He habitually skipped over anything that said “bacon,” though.

Regardless of the employee’s state of inebriation he took the massive order with grace and was surprised when they paid with a wad full of cash instead a card. As he counted it out his eyes flicked between the two of them, smiling under scruffy beard.

“Good taste,” he said, nodding to the names on their shirts. “I like both those bands.”

“Thanks,” grunted Roadhog, and Junkrat stretched his out to try to read the words “JUDAS PRIEST” upside down.

“Judas Priest’s a band, huh?” Junkrat said. “You’re gonna have to show me that one once I get my thing back on.”

The employee looked with more attention this time, noticing that Junkrat’s stretched down to his knees and would be better suited on Roadhog’s massive frame. He laughed.

“Long night, huh?” the employee snickered, and Roadhog desperately wanted to kill him, splatter his brains like the last service worker they’d wasted. He clenched his fist and forcefully uncurled it. Not now. Not here. Not without the mask.

“Oh, almost forgot.” The employee glanced up at Roadhog. “Your name?”

Shit. Roadhog’s out of the picture now that they’ve committed their first civilized murder. Hog would be begging to be made fun of. Roadie? Junkrat would never let him live that down. The employee was starting to get annoyed, the nerve of him. Making Roadhog think about this was already hurting the boy’s chances of surviving this encounter. Fuck it, might as well just use—

“Mako,” he rumbled, and Junkrat stopped squirming. The employee made change, and Roadhog dragged Junkrat to the biggest booth he could find.

 

Mako—Roadhog—went to plug in the charger, but he knew Junkrat got a kick out of figuring these things out, so he helped his boss plug in the MP3 player to charge. Electricity was as scarce as anything else where they had come from since the power plants were stripped to the bones by desperate Junkers, but it would serve Junkrat to get used to it now that civilized society relied on it so heavily.  An expert scavenger, Junkrat had accomplished enough with rusty car parts and siphoned diesel, so the concept of Junkrat gaining access to particle weapons and pulse bombs was a terrifying one. He might disintegrate himself trying to disassemble a military-tier plasma rifle, though, and that would be a headache. For now, the civilized notion of music was enough to keep Junkrat’s livewire brain occupied, and though Roadhog had listened to Junkrat’s misheard version of _Ain’t That A Kick in the Head_ more times than he would have liked, Roadhog was grateful for how low-maintenance he’d become with something less destructive to occupy his time.

Junkrat clapped his hands together with a sigh of relief when the screen lit back up with the image of a drained battery. He immediately set in to start playing with it again but Roadhog batted his hands away.

“Leave it alone,” Roadhog said in response to Junkrat’s indignant snarling, holding him off with a hand wrapped around his face. “It’ll charge up quicker if you don’t mess with it.”

“Oh.” Junkrat let go of the clawing grip he had on Roadhog’s wrist and plopped back down in the seat, satisfied with a sensible answer. “So when its batteries run out you don’t have to find new ones? You can just plug ‘em in and fill ‘em up again?”

“Yep.” Roadhog nodded, closing his eyes as he relaxed under the air conditioning, popping his back and neck as he laid it up against the booth cushions. Junkrat noticed his eyelashes were long and even he felt strange for noticing. “Their generators work just fine out here. You can find power in most buildings you walk into.”

“That’s a relief,” Junkrat said with a grin, stretching out on the table and leaning against it, cooling his sun-and-windburned face on the Formica. The loose expression quickly tensed back into thought. “Gonna be hard to make stops like this once we hit the big time, though.”

Even in a rural place like this there were television screens suspended from the walls, broadcasting news, weather, corporate propaganda. Roadhog made a grunt of acknowledgement. So Junkrat _did_ remember his warning; before they’d packed up to leave Junkertown, Roadhog was sure to explain him that the outside world didn’t endorse violence as directly as they did in Junkrat’s hometown. There would be pictures taken of him, distributed to law enforcement agencies, videos and audio broadcasts, whatever it took to put a stop to a crime spree of the magnitude Junkrat had planned for. Junkrat had taken his bodyguard’s advice with the same ambivalence he treated most of Roadhog’s concerns with, but at least he was still considering it.

“The bike’s got a battery,” Roadhog said with great reluctance. Junkrat jolted up with a sparkle in his eyes, and Roadhog knew he would regret letting Junkrat rub his dirty little mitts all over his bike. “I’d have to help you, but there might be a way to charge it while we ride.”

Junkrat grinned, wheels turning in his brain. “Not a bad idea, Roadie. I’d need the parts, though.” He twisted the charging cable in his fingers. “Don’t wanna ruin this one in case it doesn’t work out.”

The model Roadhog had given him was pretty dated, so it would be unlikely that they would find the accessories easily, let alone ones that could be modified to connect to a motorcycle battery; they’d have to trawl the electronics specialty stores and pawn shops in town, and while they could get away with looking like they do in a maccas they would certainly would turn heads in a Best Buy. Roadhog had done this to save himself some trouble but it was turning out to be causing a lot more of it; he let out a groan that Junkrat didn’t seem to notice, probably thinking it was just another one of his coughs. Why was he doing this? He could have just let Junkrat talk himself hoarse.

“We’ll just get away with charging it when we can in the meantime,” Junkrat said with a shrug, relieved that his toy had been resurrected—it was already booting back up again. “It’ll be a while before word really gets out about us, so we can lay low for a little while longer.” He flashes crooked teeth. “Unless we’re _spectacularly_ successful.”

“Don’t count on it,” Roadhog warned. Junkrat waved his robotic hand flippantly.

“Right, right, right.” Junkrat yawned, and Roadhog thought he might fall asleep right then and there—but another employee, legs buckling under the weight of their order, served them their mound of burgers and fries and the scent of precious fat and sugar perked Junkrat right up. He ate as if he’d been starving. They made as close to a comfortable living as you can get in Junkertown but Junkrat insisted that Roadhog eat the larger share of what they’d caught, citing the fact that his primary job was acting as a meat shield, but there was so much food out here they had to throw out most of it for sitting out too long and Junkrat could indulge as much as he wanted. It would do him some good—for being so tall he had no body fat to speak of, and the way his hair had thinned so early in his life he probably had malnutrition on top of the pervasive radiation poisoning. That nagging guilt crept up again. As he had many times before in his life, years before and long since the Omnium went up, Roadhog quashed his negative feelings with food. He pulled his mask down to free his mouth and hoped Junkrat wouldn’t stare.

Heat exhausted and distracted by eating, Roadhog didn’t catch Junkrat fiddling with the player before it was done charging completely, and by the time Roadhog realized it he was too busy appreciating the syrup-to-water ratio in fast food soda to care.

“Mako, huh?” The music player had been registered under that name Roadhog gave the cashier. Roadhog grit his teeth; he was hoping Junkrat hadn’t noticed that. “That’s a cool name. Like the shark.”

Mako had heard that one before, in school. He snorted. “Yeah. You know what a shark is?”

“Duh. It’s the coolest animal next to those huge stonkin’ rats that live in the rocks by Red Lake.” Junkrat popped the last bite of his fourth McDouble into his mouth and swallowed, miraculously finding more space in his gut than should be physically possible. “Oh, and pigs, of course. Don’t mean to offend.”

Mako smiled, and Junkrat felt something zip up and down his spine. “You ever seen one?” Mako asked. The exclusion zone didn’t stretch down to the ocean—the ports were too important to give up to Omnics, and the explosion didn’t reach past the Outback’s borders.

“Hm? Nah. I’ve seen ‘em in books before. There was a nice lady in Junkertown who taught me to read with picture books she locked up in the basement before the explosion. ‘Till someone took ‘em all for kindling, anyway. There were these colorful ones called Zoo Books or somethin’ and they’d go on and on about critters. I read those like crazy until I got to the technical stuff. But I liked the fish ones the best, since you don’t see them at all in Oz anymore. At least not without three or four eyes on ‘em and a couple extra fins.”

“I had those books too,” Mako said, pulling his medical mask back up. It didn’t hide the smile much—it still made his eyes squint, like the slight grin was taking up his whole face. “So you’ve never seen the ocean?”

“Nope. Too far out of the boonies. No way I’d pay road warriors to take me out there, either, I’d just be asking to be sold to somebody.”

“Sydney’s on the coast,” Roadhog said, packing up whatever food he couldn’t finish and would be wasted on Junkrat’s overclocked metabolism. “Wouldn’t be too far out of our way to drive along the shore on the way down there. Plenty of tourist traps to rob, too. Maybe a store with the cables you need.”

“Roadie,” Junkrat gasped, glassy-eyed and clutching his heart. “You’re killing me, mate. Employee of the month, you are.”

Roadhog’s ears turned red and he scratched at his sweaty neck.

“I’d hope so, being the only one.” Roadhog said. The player let out a cheerful beep to indicate it had charged completely, and Junkrat gave him a pleading look. Roadhog felt the urge to drive often, even with nowhere to go, but he’d forgotten what it was like to look forward to what was at the end of the road trip, even if nobody else would.

“Let’s go,” Roadhog affirmed, already reaching in his bag for his real mask. “I’ll play you Judas Priest on the way.”

“Think we’ll see sharks?” Junkrat asked as he bounded after Roadhog, peg leg struggling with the slippery linoleum.

“Maybe,” Roadhog replied, fondness leaking out through the filters. “Just don’t plan on swimming with ‘em.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you told me a few years ago that I'd be using my English degree to write 3k words of Roadhog and Junkrat going to McDonald's, I probably would have believed you. Don't get older.
> 
> Sorry this is taking so long, but there's gonna be a nice, big, painful chapter soon. Promise. :^)
> 
> Available on Twitter [@Pretzelcoatlus](https://twitter.com/Pretzelcoatlus)


	4. Breaking the Law - Judas Priest, 1980

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Junkrat sees the ocean.

Junkrat took well to Judas Priest. His favorite song, of course, was _Breaking the Law,_ and Roadhog couldn’t help but feel a little pride in that—at least he’d be hearing Junkrat ruin a song he likes for a few hours. Coupled with the fact that Junkrat still hasn’t removed the shirt and has now taken to pulling it over his head when the coastal breeze is chilly in the evenings, Junkrat was the spitting image of some zit-faced blonde kid in the old cartoon reruns Mako used to watch. _If he’s Beavis, that makes me Butthead,_ Roadhog thought with a shudder.

Perhaps cutting out of the eastern half of the Outback rather than curve down to the coastal point was a bad idea, all things considered. Roadhog was getting a little too eager to get away from the rival Junkers that, in 20-something hardscrabble years, had become more of an annoyance than an acceptable part of living alone in a wasteland. With Junkrat in the equation, however, it might not have been the best option. They were used to dealing with Junker threats, but organized cops and a hassle at every checkpoint was not something Junkrat was equipped to deal with. Neither was Roadhog. Mako was better for that but he’d gotten rusty.

Junkrat had always been keen on snatching or igniting anything he can get his mitts on; it served him for a while. Outside, you must choose your battles. They were still trying to put in as much distance as possible from their last job, keeping their heads down. Well, Roadhog was. Junkrat was enamored with Real Cash and not inclined to spend it when he could just pinch the item he wanted—“especially now that I got this big ol’ cape you’re calling a shirt”—but it was in their best interest. Junkrat was still hard at work on their arsenal, having just finished the trash-spraying attachment he’d built for Roadhog’s scrapgun, but Roadhog wasn’t looking for opportunities to try it out just yet. There weren’t enough bombs to throw off a committed hunting party of police, so unless they wanted to kill time in a cell for a little while it was better to throw cash at anyone that saw them and beat a polite, hasty retreat.

It just wasn’t Junkrat’s style. He was a sharp kid but not great at delaying gratification. It was a pain to keep Junkrat interested in his work and music, to listen to his whining about needing to “stretch his leg” (translation: plant a mine in the road and test how far it can throw a sedan when detonated). Still, though, hearing that loud whoop of excitement out of his boss when they finally crest the last hill that hides the ocean makes Roadhog think that maybe the premature detour into society was worth it after all.

“Hooley dooly, it’s glittering like a pile of opals!” Junkrat hooted. The air was a lot cleaner, carried away by breezes—the filters are thick but Roadhog can taste the salted air. “They don’t show you that in books.” Junkrat stands in his sidecar, stretching nearly to his full height when he props his peg up on the chassis. Roadhog makes a sound of warning but Junkrat ignores him, squinting and shielding his eyes from the sun.

“Where’re all the sharks?”

“Don’t tell me you’re really trying to—”

“I’m not, I’m not! Jeez, you’re like a mother hen all of a sudden.”

Roadhog grumbled. _I miss the hens_ , he thought. He has the nasty urge to pull over and pull off his mask and find their names, but his eyesight’s bad and the etchings on the inside are probably too worn to read anyway, melted by heat and rubbed away by skin.

Coming back to reality was addling Roadhog’s brain already. Maybe they really _should_ have stuck to the Outback route to live like hooligans for a little while longer, but there’s no way that he can tear Junkrat from the sea now. Junkrat was excited enough to clamber up onto Roadhog’s shoulders, using his harness like saddle tack to scale him. Roadhog’s warning grunts weren’t getting the same respect they used to at the start of their partnership—Junkrat was getting spoiled, maybe, but Junkrat _was_ paying him to put up with his bullshit. Which is why Roadhog wanted him to _stay alive_.

“This isn’t a circus act,” Roadhog groaned in resignation as Junkrat’s legs wrapped around the back of his head. “I’m going downhill. You’re going to fall off.”

“You won’t let me fall,” Junkrat said, too smug for Roadhog’s liking. “You’re the employee of the month.”

Roadhog revved and lurched forward, front wheel lifting until Roadhog shifts his weight forward, spraying up loose gravel when it touched down. This backfired immensely as it only forced Junkrat to squeeze his thighs around his head, blinding, startling, and enraging Roadhog all at once. It was _supposed_ to be a controlled prank to get Junkrat to think self-sufficiently for once, but Roadhog shifted gears from _lukewarm concern_ to _red-hot pissed_ so he thought, hell, if Boss wants to see the ocean so badly, then he can see it up close.

Roadhog veered off the road and the inertia did finally unsaddle Junkrat, but his reflexes compensated—earning Roadhog a slap in the face with a metal hand and a peg leg sunken into his gut, trying to find purchase. Worst of all, Junkrat was laughing. Loud and long, crowing like a rooster, Junkrat wrapped his spindly limbs as much he can around Roadhog’s massive frame and clung tight as they drove into the beach. Roadhog quickly came to his senses as sand kicked up in high arches around them—the Hog could handle terrain covered in mounds of dirt, scrubs, human cremains, essentially anything Oz could throw at it. But beach sand was loose and the bike too heavy for it, and before they can jump a sand dune like Junkrat was goading him to, they’ve sunken in too deep to move.

“Aww,” Junkrat said. Roadhog just groaned and hung his head.

“And now we’ve got to dig her out,” he huffed.

“Real shame. She skated over sand so beautifully back in Oz…”

Roadhog chuckled. “At least you have taste where you don’t have sense.” Roadhog didn’t have to swing his leg over the seat—just pull his boots out of the sand and stand up. Junkrat peeled himself off Roadhog’s back, perched on the seat and eyes once again on the ocean. The breeze whipped through what little hair he had left and it’s choppy enough to make him wince. Junkrat blinked, then grinned, scruffy brows in a high arch.

“Well.” Junkrat’s chest puffed out. “You didn’t let me fall, as I predicted.”

“Fully intended to,” Roadhog responded flatly. “You dug your claws into me like a drop bear so I had no choice.” Probably not the wisest idea to gravely wound the guy who signs your paychecks, but that’s what Roadhog had the nanite gas for. In case he _actually_ loses his patience.

“Hah! Drop bear.” A pause. “Wait, do they really have those out here?”

Roadhog snorted. “Yeah. Sure.”

“I knew it! They need trees to drop from! No trees in Oz.”

Roadhog wheeze-laughed, pulling big handfuls of sand out from around the front wheel. It didn’t take Junkrat long to realize he was taking the piss, but it’s rare to hear the big guy laughing out loud like that if he wasn’t in the middle of gutting someone like a fish, so he left it be. He looked back out at the sea again, the glint of the sun on choppy waves in the corner of his eye just enough like muzzle flare to make him nervous, if just for a moment.

“Oi,” Junkrat said suddenly, scurrying off the bike to excavate the sidecar, almost completely submerged. “You ain’t mad? For filling the Hog with sand?”

“I drove her onto the beach,” Roadhog shrugged. “So I got myself into this mess. I _am_ mad about you blinding me—”

“—with my gams?”

“… yes.”

“Sorry.”

Roadhog made another of his many sounds—an indecipherable “mmrh.” He allowed himself a couple long breaths and then gripped the front fender, enough sand pulled away that he can pull with only a mild strain of his corded arms, like Arthur pulling the sword from the stone. Junkrat wolf-whistled, and Roadhog briefly reconsidered his forgiveness.

“Just think before you do stupid things,” Roadhog said, wrenching the rest of the bike out. “It’d be a shame if something happened to—” he paused to wheeze and pound his chest, avoiding Junkrat’s watery gaze.

“Oh, Hoggy…”

“—my primary source of income.”

Junkrat clucks his tongue. “Shite-arse.”

 

So, dune racing with the Hog was a bust. An ATV would better suit any beach barbecue raids they might plan in the future, but the quad look wouldn’t work for Roadhog—he probably couldn’t reach the handlebars folded over on himself like a clown on a comically small tricycle. The Hog worked better for long, brainless rides, with that regal, leaned back seat. Comfortable, even with arid heat cutting through the coarse hair on his arms. But mostly, he was used to her look, her sound.  Mako used to own pieces of her before the Omnium, and Roadhog stole her new and improved parts, designed to keep her safe. She’d stayed with him through two long decades. As much as he’d like to keep Junkrat away from his more destructive hobbies, there was no leaving her for any other machine.

Maybe they could swipe an ATV for Junkrat. He could take that garish sidecar off, let him paint it however he wants, hook up that stereo he wouldn’t shut up about. But then again, he’d made a bunch of modifications that relied on the sidecar’s balance, and the whole saddle bag situation, and he couldn’t _really_ trust Junkrat to operate a motor vehicle, could he?

The better question was why Roadhog was thinking so hard about any of this. Junkrat wasn’t—he just stared out at the ocean, chin in metal hand, probably still looking for sharks to take the flesh one he’s got left.  

_You’re paid to keep him alive. Nothing else. Mind your own business._

Of course, however, when Roadhog spotted the glimmer of civilization a couple exits away, the first thing he considered was whether or not there might be a motorcycle parts store in town.

They still have to hook up that stereo, after all. Boss’ orders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said this chapter would come "soon" and "be painful" but i felt so bad about blowing this off for a year that i wanted to offer something fun in apology. It has certainly been A Year, but I have been reading your comments and even if I haven't replied I want you guys to know that it means a lot. I'm starting to like writing again. 
> 
> Available on Twitter [@Pretzelcoatlus](https://twitter.com/Pretzelcoatlus)


End file.
